As I ran down our family’s upstairs hall, I felt the flames devouring my skin. I
didn’t waver. I couldn’t. It was either my house or me. As my right
hand weakened from holding the can I realized that major damage had
been inflicted on my right hand. My drawing hand. So I switched
hands, steps away from my goal of the top balcony door, steps away
from winning, from saving this house from burning down.
My left hand eagerly took over for the right, which was dangling at
my side, limp and dripping. I grasped the can, I pushed out through
the door and then the can of glue, the can of liquid fire shot from
my body. I don’t even remember throwing it. I just remember seeing
it launch into the Long Island Sound. I remember it streaked across
the Christmas night like Santa in his sleigh.
“Ho, Ho, Ho” I thought as I chuckled to myself.
Then the nerve endings in both my hands kicked back in and I screamed.